


Unintended Consequences

by Rosebelle_believes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Return fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosebelle_believes/pseuds/Rosebelle_believes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'Return' fic - what starts as an ordinary day for John ends with and unforseen outcome.</p><p>The law of unintended consequences - intervention in a complex system tends to create unanticipated and often undesirable outcomes</p><p>No spoilers for series 3 btw</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer applies - I own nothing and have just borrow the characters for a while from the Conan Doyle estate and various BBC bods. 
> 
> I started this fic an absolute age ago - well Nov 2012 to be exact; then somehow Christmas - two Christmasses - got in the way! I sort of liked it so wanted to finish it and tried desperately to get it completed before the current season started but failed. It has probably missed its time (if it ever had one) but posting it anyway. This is my take on what could have happened at Sherlock's return, though undoubtedly Gatiss and Moffat did a much better job than I ever could. It was largely writtten before The Empty Hearse went out but lastt bit was finished subsquently (hate to post when a fic is half-finished). 
> 
> The first bit is betaed but not the second and third. If I sent it out to my lovely betas, who are all very busy, then I might never post. Apologies for any major clangers.

It was Saturday night and Lestrade lay sprawled on the sofa, trying to find something decent to watch on the telly. On every channel there gushed another mindless talent show and he was beginning to wonder if it might not be time to slope off to the pub for a cheeky pint. Some wanker massacring Paint it Black was the final straw - it’s not meant to be a ballad, you git - and hauling himself up, he ambled off upstairs for a slash and to grab his jacket from the bedroom. He was just rifling around for his keys when he heard the phone ring. Bugger, where was the bleeding thing? He frantically patted down his pockets, but the sound was obviously coming from somewhere downstairs. He made a dash for the landing, slamming his shin on the edge of bed.

Typically, that bloody thing rang off as soon as he entered the room. Rubbing his wounded leg and swearing profusely, he snatched up the offending article from the coffee table. The little blue screen flickered into life informing him he had missed a call – yes, thanks for that - and bleeped to register that the caller had left a message. It was from John. He was tempted to ignore it but then wondered if his mate might be at a loose end too and fancied going out for a drink. Lestrade hit #1 and waited for the answerphone to dial. Absentmindedly he rubbed his chin; could he get away without a shave?

“Greg? Greg. Oh for Christ sake, if you are there, then please pick up.” There was a moment's pause, “He came back,” a guttural noise which sounded like a swallowed sob. “Sherlock. The bastard, he came back. He just walked in and…and…,” there was a sharp exhale through clenched teeth. “Oh shit Greg, I think I’ve fucking killed him. I can’t find a pulse. Jesus. What do I do? I…”

Lestrade hit return call before the end of the message, but John’s phone just rang and rang until the voicemail kicked in. Bollocks. He stood stunned for a few moments trying to take stock and for just a fraction of a second wondered if it was all a wind-up. Sherlock alive! How the hell…? Lestrade paced around the flat ineffectually trying to gather his things, and his thoughts, together.

It had been almost three years to the day. He had been on his way back to the Yard when he had heard the call over the police radio, ‘Suspected suicide. Roof of St Bartholomew’s Hospital, West Smithfield, EC1. Victim declared dead at scene. Medical staff already in attendance. Any units respond?’ The message ignited a flicker of concern. Both Sherlock and John were still missing and Greg was well aware that Bart’s was one of their old haunts, but had quickly dismissed the idea; neither of them would be that bloody stupid.

As soon as he entered the office, one glance at Donovan’s face told him everything he needed to know. There had been no love lost between her and Sherlock, but she looked genuinely shaken; her jaw set just a little too resolutely and a slight puffiness around the eyes. Greg hadn’t said a word, just turned on his heels and walked out of the office. Without thinking he stepped back into the lift. As it started to descend he became all too aware of the sense of falling: each of the 15 floors flickering passing in an instant which seemed an eternity.

He had gone straight to the scene and offered what help he could. Later he had personally dealt with all the ensuing paperwork so that John was kept out of it all as much as possible. During the coroner’s enquiry there had been a great deal of discussion about Sherlock’s state of mind at the time of his death. Was he suicidal? Lestrade had no idea. What could he say? After the stunt Donovan and Anderson had pulled, and - heaven help him - Lestrade had gone along with, he wouldn’t have been surprised. It must have seemed to Sherlock like everything was crashing down around him; like it was all breaking apart. Wouldn’t that be enough to drive anyone to top themselves? But then again, this was Sherlock they were talking about. He seemed to live his whole life teetering on the edge of mental chaos. Lestrade had known him for several years, and on more than one occasion had spent the night in an unmarked police car outside the idiot’s flat, keeping a careful vigil. Mycroft had termed these ‘danger nights’, and anyone who really knew Sherlock could tell the signs. That was the odd thing about his ‘suicide’: those signs just hadn’t been there. Yes, he had been more distraught than Lestrade had seen him in some time – let’s face it, he had good reason to be - but he wasn’t desperate. He was still thinking. He was still reasoning. He was still Sherlock.

There were other things about his death that didn’t add up, and over the past three years Lestrade had became more and more convinced that Sherlock was still alive. Given all the shit that had been flying about at the time he could quite easily see the necessity for Sherlock to disappear for a while, and having a man like Mycroft as a brother would have had its advantages; if anyone could orchestrate a cover-up, it was him. Of course Lestrade hadn’t mentioned any of this to John. The poor bloke had fallen apart after Sherlock’s death and he didn’t want to give him any false hopes. Outwardly he had held himself together with a quiet, solemn dignity but Lestrade knew that inside he was all razorblades and pins.

Now, it seems, after three bloody years, the idiot just waltzes back in without warning. That was fucking crass, even for him, not to mention stupid. I think I have fucking killed him – oh John, mate, what the hell has happened? Back then it seemed a day wouldn’t pass without someone declaring that they wanted to kill Sherlock Holmes, usually after suffering one acerbic comment too many or having a perfectly reasonable suggestion shot down in a blaze of vitriol. John, god love him, was on the receiving end more than most.

“Sherlock, if you slam a cab door in my face once more and drive off leaving me on the pavement looking like a bloody idiot, I swear I will swing for you.”

“Oi, you git, stop deleting my passwords or I’ll break your bloody neck.”

“You know, it really isn’t sensible to piss me off, Sherlock. I do keep a loaded handgun!”

But the thought that John would actually do anything to hurt the man was frankly laughable. It just didn’t register. Even ignoring the fact that at his core John was a pretty gentle bloke, with an almost Calvinist sense of morality, he just wouldn’t touch Sherlock. The two of them were bleeding joined at the hip! They had this weird sort of bond going on. They took care of each other; they were a unit.

Right, he needed to get his sorted? Had to get over there quick. Was John at Baker Street? Yes, of course he was, where the bloody hell else would he be? Should he call an ambulance? The police? Grabbing his wallet off of the table, Lestrade headed for the door, phone in hand, his fingers dancing over the keypad.

******************

Baker Street was a hub of activity by the time he had eventually made his way through the West End traffic and pulled up in front of the flat. The blues and twos were already on the scene and had cordoned off the area, keeping back the small crowd gathering at the top of the street. An ambulance was just pulling off, blue lights flashing. Behind the conservative façade of the Georgian terrace, curtains twitched. Lestrade’s stomach lurked in time with the intermittent shriek of the siren, and he wondered if he ought to ask one of the plods what the prognosis was, but that would just waste more time, and he had been too long as it was. Whatever the outcome, there was nothing he could do, and he needed to get to John. Fuck knows what state he would be in.

Waving his badge at the policeman on the door, he charged up the stairs two at a time, and pushed his way into the flat. A couple of uniforms were milling around the entrance, blocking both his access and his view. He could just make out John, sitting small and desolate on the sofa, a brown tartan travel blanket draped over his shoulders. Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to him, gripping onto the top of his arm protectively, but he didn’t seem to see her. He just sat gazing down at his hands, turning them over and over – palm to fist, palm to fist - seemingly oblivious to the commotion going on around him.

“Hello, Lestrade,” called the Detective Sergeant in charge. Lestrade looked at him, trying to place the face. “What they called in CID for? Thought this would be way too routine for the likes of you lot,” he nodded over in John’s direction. “Looks like a pretty straight forward domestic to me. Some bloke beating the shit out of his boyfriend,” he sneered.

Just then the police photographer set off a barrage of flashes: the momentary bursts of light punctuated only by the high pitched whine of the battery re-charge. Startled, John looked up, his expression animated for a second, but then rapidly clouding over, growing distant.

Lestrade took the opportunity to push his way forward, ignoring the disgruntled snorts of his colleague. John caught sight of him and, recognising the familiar face amongst the sea of blue serge, he focused and smiled sadly.

“Hello, Greg. Thanks for coming,” he said quietly, his voice trembling a little around the edges.

“Bloody hell, John, what’s happened?”

John just sat staring up at him, breathing deeply through his nose. He was obviously trying to compose himself long enough to get his story out. Lestrade gave him a few moments, taking the opportunity to glance around the flat. All seemed largely undisturbed; there were no immediate signs of a struggle except that the mirror above the mantelpiece sported a series of ugly cracks, radiating from a single centre. Other than that, it looked much as it had always done, the same eclectic collection of comfortable - though mismatched - furniture, and a random selection of objects d’art, although all somewhat neater and cleaner now John lived here alone. However, looking again with a more professional eye he caught sight of the rumpled hearth rug, the edges of which were matted and stained a dark red. The photographer was taking a light reading but when he stepped away, Lestrade could see a congealing pool of blood partially obscured by the second armchair.

He felt sick. It was like a cold hand had reached inside his stomach and was jabbing away at his kidneys. He often got the same feeling when he first caught sight of a body bag or incident tent at a crime scene. A moment of portent and apprehension, when bad was about to get a whole lot worse. Usually he could summon up some modicum of professional distance, but there was no chance of that in this situation. John and Sherlock had been like his family. Hell, they were his family - albeit a largely dysfunctional one - since his wife had walked out with the kids. He couldn’t have felt more involved if it had been him with his hands round Sherlock’s neck, and, quite frankly, at times it could have been.

A female police officer sat in a chair opposite John, waiting patiently to take down his statement. Lestrade coughed and caught her eye, then jerked his head, indicating she should bugger off for a while. She looked at him, puzzled.

“I think I can take over now, thanks, officer.”

“Sir, I can’t just…,” she protested.

Lestrade knew he was pushing it. He had absolutely no jurisdiction in this case. His arse had already been hauled over the coals because of his previous involvement with Sherlock, and if he put another foot wrong then his career was right down the swanny. But sod it, what could he do?

“Could you just give me a few moments?” he pleaded, knowing how wrong it sounded. “I just want to talk to him for a second. You can stay in earshot.”

The policewoman looked dubious, but stood up and went to help a nearby colleague.

Lestrade sat down on the vacated chair and looked over at John. Christ, he was a mess. His face was several hues below pallid, his cheeks haggard and his eyes looked raw and painful. There was a little patch of red under his lower lip where he had worried the skin with his teeth and his jaw was shadowed by day-old stubble. Worse still was the state of his hands. His knuckles were grazed and sore, crusted over with a thin veneer of blood turning to scabs. He rubbed at them intermittently; a thin sheen of clear liquid seeping out of the re-opened wounds.

Lestrade leant forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Okay, John,” he said, trying to infuse his voice with authority, although he currently felt like he had a bag of marshmallows coagulating in the back of his throat. He knew that John was used to dealing with crisis situations, although not usually with him as the cause. Nevertheless, Lestrade hoped that by instilling formality and calm in his own voice, John’s training would start to kick in and hopefully help him cope a bit better. Ironically it seemed all Lestrade's own training had gone out the bloody window. He felt far from calm, alternating between wanting to hug the poor bastard and shake him sodding senseless. As for what he thought of Sherlock at the moment…well, he really didn’t want to go there. He was worried sick, and terrified at the prospect of losing him a second time, but also incensed that he would just stroll back into their lives without giving any thought for the consequences.

Lestrade shuffled his chair a little further forward.

“Take your time, John. Just tell me exactly what happened.”


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second part of my 'Return' fic - the first re-encounter.
> 
> Not betaed so sorry for any awful mistakes.

John felt like a stranger in his own skin. His body was something volatile and perfidious - a stolid mass holding him hostage while his thoughts raced and collided with each other. He looked up at Greg, his eyes wild and searching, but found no solace in the inspector’s look of concern. How long had they been sat there? It was difficult to think. Moments? Maybe hours? Mrs. Hudson still had her arm round his shoulders. He turned to her, ever so slightly, and she pulled the blanket up around his neck. The rough wool rasped his skin but her touch anchored him in reality, steering him back from the maelstrom raging in his head.

“It’s ok, dear,” she said, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

No, Mrs. Hudson, it’s not ok, he thought. It is never going to be ok. 

He drew his hand down across his face, wincing slightly as the flesh over his scarred knuckles cracked open anew. Sherlock was alive. He had been standing right there, over by the armchair. He was real, solid, irrepressible - his presence pervading the flat like a rain storm at the end of a long hot August. Then somehow is had all shifted, returned to that swirling miasma of loss, reproach and guilt that had begun two years ago.

“Is there any news?” he asked, looking anxiously from Lestrade to the Detective Sergeant standing over by the doorway. 

“Not yet, John,” Lestrade replied. “But he’s going to be alright. That bastard’s got nine lives!” he smiled awkwardly.

John let his chin drop forward onto his chest and tried to piece things together in his head. 

The evening had started much like any other. He took the tube back from Charring Cross to Baker Street and then popped into M&S to grab a bottle of wine and something for tea. It was a bit of an extravagance but he couldn’t be arsed to walk all the way over to Sainsburys on the Edgware Road. It was pissing down and his shoulder ached. 

Jugging the carrier bag and his briefcase, he stood on the step of 221B rifling through his pockets for the door keys and swearing under his breath. Where the hell were they? Just how many pockets does the average man need? Finally he found them and let himself into the hall, wiping his feet on the doormat. He called out a brief greeting to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, John dear,” she replied from the murky depths of the house. “It’s a real shocker outside. You must be soaked. Don’t forget to wipe your feet, love”. He smiled ruefully to himself and started up the stairs. 

As he neared the first floor landing, a familiar frisson of fear rippled through him. The back of his neck prickled and his heart thumped in his chest. Something was wrong. There was nothing obviously amiss. Everything looked pretty much the same as he had left it that morning, but the feeling of apprehension was inescapable. Cautiously he had approached the flat, the creak of his shoes on the floorboards sounding painfully loud in ears. The door was locked and there were no sign of tampering. No tell-tale finger marks on the brass doorplate which he habitually wiped clean each time he left the flat. No footprints visible in the film of dust which covered the threshold. But still he couldn’t quell the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Wishing he had his gun, he had carefully turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. 

“Hello, John.” A tall figure stood haloed in the light seeping through the sash windows from the street lamps below. The familiar voice pinioned him to the spot. Sherlock.

He took a small step backwards, incredulity mixing with euphoria. Then he felt the blood rushing in his ears and his hands becoming damp with sweat. The room spun wildly out of compass and he had an odd sensation of falling. 

The next thing he remembered was a painfully bright light and a sharp stabbing sensation in his right wrist, emanating up into his elbow. Sherlock was leaning over him and tapping the sides of his face gently; a look of sharp concern etched on his face - that impossible, stupid, infuriating, remarkable, beautiful, face. John blinked, trying to process the myriad of thoughts and emotions careering through his mind at breakneck speed.

“You’re not dead,” he said blearily, a statement more than a question. He dared the apparition in front of him to dissipate into dust motes.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replied with a slight shrug. 

He continued to gaze in disbelief until Sherlock, clearly uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, stood up in one fluid movement and crossed over to the fireplace, where he begun picking up objects from the mantelpiece.

“Not dead…” John repeated again, his voice trailing off. Then he shook his head, sitting up a bit too quickly. The room revolved for a moment and he tried to staunch the vague feeling of nausea that swum in his stomach. He couldn’t take this in. Couldn’t work out what was happening.

“It seems,” Sherlock turned on his heel, “that the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he smiled sardonically.

John leapt to his feet, the haze in is head instantly replaced by an ice cold fury. 

“But I saw you, Sherlock. I saw you dead. I saw your skull…,” he gestured vaguely in the air with his hands then let them drop. “I saw…”

“No, John, that is what you think you saw,” Sherlock replied, as if addressing a recalcitrant child.

“I buried you, Sherlock. I grieved for you.”

“You buried an empty coffin; though admittedly packed with ballast to precisely emulate my body weight at the time of death. That is allowing for certain post mortem fluctuations, of course.” 

“You bastard,” John’s voice thundered. “You absolute bloody bastard,” he strode across the room, closing the gap between them. “I watched you jump. Do you know what that felt like, Sherlock? Have you any fucking idea? “

Sherlock craned his body back from both the verbal and physical onslaught. “I am sorry, John,” he replied, adjusting his tone slightly. “I didn’t mean to cause you any…,” he paused, “distress. But it really was unavoidable. Given events, I had to disappear for a while and Mycroft agreed that faking my own death was probably…”

“Mycroft,” John bellowed. “Mycroft knew all about this?”

“Well of course he did. I…”

“And who else?” he ranted, without waiting for a response. “Lestrade? Molly? Mrs Hudson? MI5? The fucking Queen? Tell me, Sherlock, where they all in on it? Did everyone know but me?

“Now you are just being absurd.”

“Absurd,” he stared menacingly into Sherlock’s face, paused to contain his anger, then began to pace the room. “Yes, I suppose it is bloody absurd. Absurd to spend the past two years feeling like I’ve been ripped open. Absurd to keep constantly running through all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’. Of waking up each day wondering if there was something I could have done. Of looking in the shadows, bloody hoping that one day you will come back. Of visiting that cemetery just to talk to you. Absurd to think that nothing could ever really be ‘right’ again. Of thinking I had actually lost someone remarkable. What happened, Sherlock? Did you just get bored?” 

“No,” Sherlock snapped back, “of course not. Things were just…complicated. I had to disappear.”

“And you couldn’t tell me? That is the bit I just don’t get. It wouldn’t have taken much, just one word. Surely Mycroft and his bloody cartel could have got one word to me to let me know you were OK. Just one word to say you weren’t dead. I thought I was your friend, Sherlock,” John’s tone saddened. “Your only friend, but you couldn’t trust me enough with this?

“It wasn’t a question of trust,” Sherlock spat back in distain.

“So what exactly was it, because I would really love to know?”

“Things just got too complex.”

“So you said,” John shouted, “which is a pretty pedestrian response. Surely the great mind of Sherlock Holmes isn’t slipping?”

“You are willfully failing to understand, John, which just goes to prove my point.” 

“Which is?” 

“The web was tightening. You, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, you were you were …” Sherlock stopped and stared back at him.

“Were what, Sherlock? “ He demanded.

“You were …” a pained look flashed across Sherlock face, then his features settled into and icy calm. “A liability,” he replied.

John felt something almost tangible snap inside his head. There was a perceptible shift of colour; the blazing red of anger replaced by something dark and brittle. He raised his fist and struck out, punching Sherlock so hard that his head recoiled with the force of the blow. John watched him staggered momentarily but then returned to his previous position, his back held straight. Those cool blue eyes stared back at him defiantly, urging him to continue. Before John could gauge what was happening he found himself lashing out again. This time he felt flesh yield and split beneath his fist, but Sherlock just stood there, his head lolling a little, but offering no retaliation. He drew back his fist a third time but just before his punch hit home he saw the other man flinch. It was almost imperceptible but that tiny movement brought John back to himself. In that moment his anger cracked and dissipated, replaced by a surge of relief and emotion for this impossible man he thought lost. But it was too late to pull the punch. Instead, he twisted his torso, smashing his fist into the mirror above the fireplace. And sending a crack radiating across the surface. 

Surprised, Sherlock recoiled as if the blow had landed. He stumbled back, his leg catching on the arm of John’s armchair and tipping him off balance. He threw his hands out to break the fall but they flayed in the air, grasping nothing. Clumsily he sprawled backwards, his body twisting at an odd angle as he tried to bring his long limbs under control. Then there was a sickening crack as his head hit the corner of the hearth surround. His body went limp and slumped awkwardly to the floor. John sprang forwards, feeling a new agony coursing along old familiar pathways like opiates through a thready vein. No, not again. This couldn’t really be happening all over again.


End file.
